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Tuesday, January 24, 2012

Call a spade a spade!

I was going to post on Sunday so l could wax religical, but instead I'll just tell you about my life.


My daughter got asked to the Winter Waltz on Thursday--four weeks early! It used to be called the Sweethearts Ball, but the students were complaining that they felt pressure to ask someone they actually liked, so the administration changed the rhetoric.


In my day we went to dances with people we were attracted to. And we liked it like that. Nowadays if you get asked to a dance, you can rest assured your date doesn't like you. And if you get asked four weeks early, there's a good chance he hates your guts.


The guy who asked her . . . let's just say she once threw a pie in his face. That might be why he hates her guts. She has high dating standards like that. If she can throw a drumstick or a tennis ball or cake batter at you, you are worthy to ask her out.

She's not the only one with high dating standards around here either. Everyone's got 'em. I once teased my Laurel's president that she needed a boyfriend and she scolded me for going against the proper authorities and trying to lead her down a path of destruction.


That's when I realized how much she really did need a boyfriend.


But we can't blame the teenagers. They're just doing what we say, and not what we did. And I think they're just saying what we say too.


On the bright side, we are teaching them how to wear the necessary masks and use the necessary rhetoric to face what lies ahead of them. Or should I say, to dodge what lies ahead of them.


Anyways, my 15-year-old has a girlfriend. But not the kind that goes against the proper authorities because he never actually uses the word girlfriend--he can't call a spade a spade. (Neither can my 13-year-old.)


His friends call her his "chica"--at least that's how they introduced me to her behind his back and against his will and without his consent while he was in the locker room after a recent basketball game.



I like her. She's nice. And cute. And she calls me Debbie. I'm not sure how to break it to her that my name is Dummy, but usually people figure that out on their own.


Over the weekend my son mentioned to us that he told his "chica" we are weird. Sooo weird is the way he phrased it, I believe.


"That's great," said my hub to me later as I was climbing into bed trying to pinpoint what evidence our son has against us. "I'm glad he told her."


That's all my hub could say. As if it was a compliment! As if he was genuinely thrilled that we are out of the closet.


My hub has no energy for masks. And rhetoric shmetoric. To him a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.


(Granted, he doesn't have the most developed sense of smell. I mean to him weird smells the same as cool. As does odd, peculiar and strange.)


I tried to take my hub's approach, but I eventually got up enough gumption to tiptoe into my son's room while he was sleeping and confront him.


"Why do you think I'm weird? Huh? Huh? Huh?" I said. "I mean, I get why you might mistake your dad for a looney toon, but what about me? Is it because I don't read your texts or stalk you on Facebook? Is it because I don't give you a curfew? Just tell me if it is because I can give you a curfew. Don't think I can't. It's just that you're always home before midnight and . . ."


"Let him be," called my hub from the other room. "It's great he thinks we're weird."


"Is it because I carried you around inside me for 9 months then gave you life? That was a little strange, I confess. Or is it because I spend several hours a day cleaning your house and cooking your food and doing your laundry and driving you around and watching your basketball games and filming your basketball games? Or is it because I buy my own sweaters back from D.I. so I'll have enough money to buy your Nike socks? Is it? Is it? Is it? Huh? Huh? Huh?"


The more I talked, the clearer it became that he was right. I am off my rocker.


"No," he finally grunted. "It's because you leave the cap off the toothpaste."


{{{pregnant pause}}}


"That's not weird," I told him. "That's gross." And then I loosened his neck from the headlock and went back to bed.


See what I mean? Kids these days don't know how to call a spade a spade.



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5 comments:

2busy said...

You are so funny! My teenage son thinks we are weird, but strangely doesn't hesitate to bring all his friends and girl friend who is not a girlfriend arond. WHATEVER

DeNae said...

Remember the tv show "Benson"? Robert Guillaume plays an aide to the Governor. In one episode the governor says, "Just call a spade a spade!" and Guillaume says, "And then you better run like hell."

We kinda have to do that, too, huh? Call it like we see it, and be prepared to run like hell.

Oh well. I could do with the exercise.

Pat said...

My teenagers think I am weird also. Maybe we can form a club.

IWA (e - va) said...

I miss your weirdness! True story!

robin said...

I have known for quite some time that I am weird. I don't think my kids appreciate yet how weird I am. My oldest turns twelve next month so I'm sure he'll realize fairly quickly how odd I really am.